The SceneShifter's Tale
by True.th
Summary: The famous story of the Opera House Ghost, told from Joseph Buquet's skewed perspective. Though has a Leroux dark feeling, relies on images, appearances from the 2004 movie. Readers and reviewers always welcomed and appreciated.
1. Chapter 1

I.Buquet's Lonely Vigile

A stank, stale air wafted through the upper rooms in the loneliest corners of the Opera House. Dampened walls fixated a permanent chill on the wooden rafters, quenching any warm air that dared rise in the forgotten quarters. A feeble light attempted its way amidst the stronger shadows, but to no avail. The ever fixed darkness prevailed.

One sole man walked the abandoned story, the self-proclaimed chief of the haunted attic, Joseph Buquet. He pulled at one of the curtain ropes, tying it down behind a pole, pausing to stroke his matted, filthy beard. Buquet was neither a good-looking nor self-respected man. He came from a lower-class family with poor connections, and such would be his sole lot in life, never expected to rise in rank or fortune. However, he did not complain. Though his pay was meager at best, his job at the Opera House offered him a place to live, food to eat, and made for interesting conversation.

Of course he had seen shadows and heard the creaking and groaning of the wooden panels, but so long as he had his bottle of Bourbon nearby it all mattered little. He loved the adrenaline firing through his veins at the thought his own life might be in peril as he worked. It granted him certain bragging rights and created fantastic storytelling afterwards. As no one stood by him in his post, he could embellish and exaggerate the catwalk ongoings to his heart's content. Who could say otherwise? True, that meddlesome Madame Giry often put his tales to naught with a brisk reprimand from her sharp tongue, but Buquet ignored the scoldings. If he wanted to be yelled at, he'd visit his own dear mere more often.

As great a feeling being labeled an informant to the supernatural gave him, a greater reason compelled him to serve as stagehand. Buquet loved the bird's eye view he had of all the pretty ballet girls. He would gaze at them; his greedy, glazed eyes roving their trim little bodies. Every part of his being shook with intense lust as the girls stretched those perfectly shaped legs or bent their bodies forward during their warm up exercises, revealing healthy bosoms and perfectly round bums. At such height he could gawk to his heart's content, and if he needed to release some of the fire coursing through his burning loins, he would do so blithely with no one to witness his profane gestures. And if there did happen to be a certain someone nearby, well, ghosts certainly understood the needs of men? Why else would they walk amongst them?

Buquet chortled rather loudly at the idea that a ghost would care so much in his simple diversions. Though this so called apparition did not haunt in the conventional manner other specters did. He wore dress clothes and took stage props. Now what would a ghost want with material possessions? They said he loved music, nay, he was music. The reference thus made him synonymous with Lucifer, and no one made fun of the devil.

Many were skeptical that this ghost was indeed the Fallen Angel ousted in the Great Rebellion from heaven, but to attribute something to this unseen spirit of a man, people claimed he wore a Death's Head, thus earning him the reputation for the Angel of Death. Irreligious dog that he was, Buquet laughed at it all, claiming neither angel nor demon frightened him.

All at once, a soft clanging came from the beams above him. Buquet momentarily forgot his drink, his gaze traveling several feet above. Yet all he saw was the infernal darkness clouding all. He reached for a nearby lantern, but that proved useless.

"Hello?" he called to the void. "If someone's there, come and have a drop of brandy with me, eh?"

No answer, only the resounding echo of his slurred words.

"Ah, all the more for me anyway," he muttered, bringing the bottle again to his lips, not pausing to wonder at his trembling hands or rapidly beating heart.


	2. Chapter 2

II. Careless Tongues Can Easily Quiet

"Enough, Joseph! We don't want to hear anymore!" Aurelie's shrieks resounded in the ballet girl's dormitory, a place Madame Giry repeatedly expressed Buquet have no access to, and yet still he repeatedly found his way inside. Perhaps due in part to the lively dancing girls need for continual entertainment. For though Buquet's looks and general manners sorely lacked, he provided great diversion to the ladies, who at the end of the day, wanted to think of something other than pirouettes and plies. As grotesque as some of the girls thought Buquet, when engaged with his tales he seemed to transform to a most loquacious orator.

Other of the ballet protégées echoed the bolder Aurelie's sentiments, but even as they voiced their protests, several clung to Buquet's arms while others sat eagerly by him to hear more. The middle-aged man, needing very little invitation, looked about the room pleased with the reception his tales met with. He hoped for some return in his self-sacrifice, allowing his eyes to feast on the beauties before him as a lion eyes its next meal.

"I've only begun to tell the best part, loves," he expressed with liberty, and demonstrating further daring grabbed the delicate hand of Aurelie who immediately pulled back, her pug nose wrinkling in disdain at the contact. While she revolted, Buquet thrived. "Don't you want to know what he looks like?"

"You haven't seen him…have you?" Therese, a taller brunette with gangly limbs questioned. Before another breath expiated, the band of girls tightened around the only man in the room.

Buquet's corn-colored teeth gleamed in the dim light. Behind him, a candle waned under a sudden ominous breeze threatening to put out the feeble flame. The soft glow rapidly flickered, but then rekindled. The slam of a door followed the light's dimming, and all the girls screamed at the perfectly timed clamor only to groan at the arrival of their Instructor and Guardian.

"You foolish girls," Madame Giry chided, "how many times do I have to tell you to get to bed? This is not the hour for silly stories, least of all from him!" The older woman tossed her head angrily in the direction of the scene-shifter, her curled lip and narrow eyes expressing exactly what she felt for him.

Buquet laughed delightedly clicking his tongue. The old woman's cackling would not bother him tonight. High on life and whiskey, he had yet to heed any of her scoldings.

"Dear Madame Giry, I meant no disrespect. Just wanted to provide a little amusement for the gals. They've worked hard all day. A little fun won't spoil none of them." Loathsome brute that he was, Buquet pulled at the buckle of his trousers, calling attention to the alarming bulge growing underneath.

"Amusement, you call it? Go spread your damn lies elsewhere, Buquet, but not here. Not in my domicile. Go share your foul stench with wenches who will gladly hear you so long as they're handsomely paid. My girls need to keep their heads on their work, not have them filled with your falsehoods." Madame Giry scooted the girls away, as a mother hen does her chicks. Aurelie stubbornly stayed put, until the Mistress practically flung the youthful damsel on the cot. The girl released a quick screech.

"Mama, get him out of here now," hissed Meg Giry, Madame Giry's only child. She gave a quick glance to her best friend's empty bed. No one had seen hide or hair of Christine Daae for several days now and the idea that Buquet might know where she was troubled her greatly. More so, she felt equally intrigued by his private knowledge, whether it was privileged information or not she dared not ask, fearful the more she heard the more she would fall victim to his tales, and she refused to be the insect caught in the spider's web.

"Ah, but I've reached the best part. You want to know if I'm seen him?" Buquet again addressed the poor cluster of ignorant gals. Seduced by their imaginations, they nodded eagerly.

Lowering his voice, Buquet stepped in closer. "I have," he whispered in a ragged breath. "He's thin, like a skeleton. His coat and trousers hang from his bony limbs. He has two huge holes for his eyes, like a dead man's skull. His skin is stretched over that cadaverous face, and it's not white like you assume a ghost's face should be. No. It's a nasty yellow. And his nose… there is no nose! It's the face death!" Buquet cackled gleefully at the shudders produced by his ghastly tale.

"But he must have eyes!" Therese called. "How else could he see?"

"And a nose! Everyone has a nose!" Another girl called from the back, wringing her hands together.

"And yet he has the most beautiful voice," Meg called from across the room, touching Christine's blanket, hoping her friend would materialize in doing so. Dead silence filled the room as all heads turned in the buxom blonde's direction.

"Ay, such is true, Miss Giry. He has a voice surpassing that of them angels, but it's more like the call of the siren. You're tantalized by its melody, and before you know it--" Buquet slammed his palms together thrilling in the shrieks and jumps from the dancers – "he has you in his clutches, and he eats you!"

"Come now, Buquet! Now you're playing a farce," the girls cried in turns.

"No," Madame Giry called out, tired of his trivial pursuits. "What he plays is a deadly game with Fate. A wise man holds his tongue." Her pencil thin eyebrow arched as her warning met with a sigh and wave of the hand. "But if you are not a wise man, which I strongly suspect, then prepare yourself for your visit."

"My visit?"

"Why, with the death you claim to know so well." At that she grabbed the wretched man by the ear and pulled him out of the dormitory, slamming the heavy door in his face. Unmolested by what just occurred, Buquet rubbed his ear and then pressed it against the door. He could hear Madame Giry's rapid French banter as she fiercely scolded the girls and insulted him.

Shame, he thought. Had she not been so icy he might give her a lesson on taking more pleasure from life. Ah, well, there was always the younger Giry.


	3. Chapter 3

III. Those Who Have Seen His Face….

The Opera House appeared more like a haunted mansion in the still of the night. Other than the rats, nothing else scurried about the great halls. Most of the Garnier's workers, tired of their daily and nightly labors, slumbered heavily in their respective rooms. Everything was pitch black, not even the night sky dared to reveal the numerous dancing stars held in its great expanse; instead it chose to cover them with a blanket of gray clouds.

Buquet shifted in his small cot, his liquor bloated body sagging the center of the flimsy bed. He generally had a hard time falling asleep, which explained the countless empty bottles laying at his wayside, but tonight he had a shortage of his favorite liquor, and the lack thereof kept sleep at bay.

Rubbing a massive hand across his blood shot eyes, he hoped to massage the muscles around the sockets, succeeding only to chafe them. With a grunt, he threw aside his soiled, tattered blanket, and threw on his slacks. Sleep evading him, he hoped to find solace through the Opera House.

Not needing a candle he moved about noisily through the empty corridors. If he couldn't sleep, why should anyone else have that pleasure? His heavy stampeding thundered in the hallways, and his alcohol craving body lumbered clumsily about, crashing into doors and tripping over his own feet.

Muttering curses under his whiskey breath, Buquet began his ascent towards the one place he knew better than any other. He climbed the narrow steps to his own private kingdom, where he was master, ruler, emperor of the domain. True, only rats and roaches were his subjects, but in the dark recesses of his mind he imagined he alone controlled the outcomes of productions, that all theatrical presentations were guided by his hands. Who could do what he did? None. No one had the skill, but more than that, no one had the courage.

Though many of the other stagehands laughed at the rumored "Ghost", many did not tread in the areas of frequent sightings, the rafters being one of them. The strong, burly men chuckled loudly when they heard the younger girls repeat in whispered tones one of Buquet's stories, but were hard-pressed to follow him up to his haunts, preferring to work in the safety of numbers and security of the populated areas.

Buquet stretched his arms over his wild mane, pausing to rest them both atop the unruly crown of dark hair.

"Now where might I find a spot of brandy at this time?" he mumbled to himself, letting heavy eyes lazily scan the well-known surroundings. Bending over, Buquet brought empty bottle after bottle to his lips, hoping to taste but a drop of the already consumed mixtures, uttering obscenities when his parched throat met dry glass. He tossed each one over his shoulder, relishing in the shattering sound produced by his hurls.

"Well, now, if that ain't a bit of bad luck, I can't say what is." He clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth, wondering what other way he might distract himself, for there were a good six or seven hours until he needed to report to work.

Perhaps if he searched in other parts of the Opera House he might find some half-consumed forgotten bottle, or even better, a woman attached to it, though the latter seemed a bit improbable. Hitching the waist of his pants, he began his search.

For whatever reason, he climbed higher and higher, knowing he neared the rooftops. He circled the ceiling's rotunda, which he never bothered admiring. In his opinion the decorative piece was unnecessary detailing wasted on the rich to get them to come and pay for the idiotic productions held in the accursed spot. Now if someone made him the lead of an opera that would be interesting.

The sudden sound of nearby door closing called Buquet's attention to the left corridor. Turning his head and entire body in the direction of the echo, he followed the noise before it faded. His eyes could barely see through the darkness, but he believed he saw a darker shadow that had the form of a man. Only for the briefest second did Buquet pause, swallowing down the momentary fear hard, but another thought crossed his mind. What if this was indeed the Opera Ghost, and here was his chance to meet him, to capture him, to put an end to this nonsensical haunting? He would be hailed a hero of the greatest order, rewards and consequence certain to follow.

Trying to see through the engulfing blackness, Buquet attempted to pursue after the figure. He found nothing, hearing even less. Disappointed, the slightly sober man turned away, but had difficulty finding the door which had led him into the room. With quick breaths, he turned his head and let his hands reach for the nothingness that surrounded him. He then realized he wasn't alone.

With quick breaths, Buquet ran in one direction only to strike a wall. Had he not been so terrified, he'd feel embarrassment, but his sole goal was to flee for he swore he saw a golden flickering in the distance. The small light wouldn't be so frightening in and of itself, had he not been convinced they were eyes, watching him, laughing at him, burning through him. The glow grew brighter and drew closer.

"I – I meant no harm," he sputtered in terror. His hands reached next to him, feeling a bottle. Whether it contained precious wine or not now mattered little. In a desperate attempt, he clasped the container's smooth neck and hurled it in the direction of the glow, and as quickly as he had noticed the flaming specks, they disappeared as if someone had blown them out.

Resting his head against the stone wall, Buquet exhaled a long breath. Just when he felt his racing heart return to a steadier beat and the quickness of his gasps regulate, he heard an eerily sinister voice whisper into his ear, "You will rue the moment you laid eyes on me." And before he had a chance to answer, there in the dark, Buquet beheld a visage like none other, worse than any description he could have ever conjured or described. Without any doubt, he looked into the face of death itself, except this one was alive!

Sunken, hollowed eyes stared back into his own, which he was certain grew wider with every passing second. An ill, yellowish hue covered the bony face, stretching thinly about the skull, tighter than any glove ever fit a hand. Non-existent lips tugged into a baleful smile, revealing misshapen and malformed teeth. He smelled of death, or perhaps he was death, come to take him!

"Dear God! Get away from me, you specter!" he cried in a high pitched voice, not far off emulating a woman's cry. He felt a warm and wet sensation soaked through his trousers, and no longer thinking of glory or heroics, Buquet stood and bolted out the door, which had been open all along.


	4. Chapter 4

IV. Repentance Draws Far From a Haunted Soul

Dubious calm followed Buquet's horrific incident, yet the scene-shifter was none the better for it. As a matter of course, he became a recluse, unable to perform his duties, terrified to venture up onto the rafters unless accompanied by some other tangible being. His contemporaries mocked him good naturedly.

"So much for the storyteller. Come man, where'd all your fancy-_fool _tales and create-_eeve_ visions flown off to?" they would jest with careless jabs to the man's frame. He felt none of it.

Buquet's mind replayed the scene. He had gotten too close, had seen too much. For that very night, running in the darkness such as a madman might, praying for the sanity that seemed to evade him, he saw something more he should not have. He alone witnessed the sudden reappearance of the much sought-after Miss Daae. The reappearance itself was not out of the ordinary, it was a given she would come back, and come back she did; ambling the halls mirroring his own expression, he was quite certain, could he but catch a glimpse of his own sorry features. Nay, it was not the manner of her return; it was in whose hands she graced the Opera with her homecoming. Clasped to the delicate tips of the maiden's fingers was death incarnate, Lucifer's spawn, a shroud of black, a figure of the night. He _was_ the night. There could be no doubt of it. He alone held the secrets of the netherworlds, the keys to hell and death. Why else would he take such care, such delight in cloaking himself in such a manner? And like a nocturnal specimen, like the German vampire, he subsisted only in the dead of night.

The drunken laborer trembled from the crown of his head to the tips of his broken, dusty boots. Only he pitied himself. None could care less of his troubles, of the woes which tormented him, and if they did, none could help him. Even God had forsaken him. He had neither the power nor fortitude to pray for deliverance or forgiveness. He was a reckless man, a drunk, a luster of all things depraved and carnal. What would God want with him now?

If only he could remember the simple prayers taught him by his mother in his infancy and the nuns at the church. All evaded him. His only companion now was the brandy he kept faithfully at his side.

Everyone mocked him, mocked his silence and his practically catatonic state. He refused to make reference to his vision, unwilling to grant the demon power to destroy him.

Sometimes in passing, he would catch a glance of Madame Giry, the stately woman shrouded in black as well, an ominous reminder of the secret she knew, the undisclosed knowledge she guarded so carefully. Oh, yes, the woman was suspect to bearing a connection with the specter. Why else would she stare at him so knowingly? How else could she have uttered words, when recalled and revisited, entrenched in prophecy? Buquet longed to speak to her, to delve into the dark recesses of her mind, to discover the truths she kept locked in her heart. She watched him as though he were a marked man. No pity, no disdain in her serious gaze, only the look of imminent death could be read in her emerald irises.

That death would follow was certain. The creature had hexed him, given him a timetable to meet his maker – or destroyer. And with each minute passed, every second he breathed, his agonized mind and tortured soul reminded him of his appointed hour. It was not what he wished. For what man, knowing his demise, would expect to greet death with open arms? No. He reacted as most men nearing the hour of peril would. He meant to fight. And as Buquet stood at the top of the wooden beams, a fellow worker by his elbow, he devised a plan for survival.

Going back to the comparison he drew on earlier of the ghost being vampirical, never venturing from its haunts until the night drew its long shadow, Buquet wondered if the being would not be vulnerable and defenseless during the day.

Certainly he could not be a ghost. He had observed how Miss Daae clung to him fast enough. Her trembling fingers had touched flesh; they did not slip through an illusionary or visionary arm. It had been a physical limb, pertaining to this corporeal world. If indeed he was a mortal man, then he could be killed by mortal means. Now Buquet had never envisioned or fancied himself a murderer. He had on no account taken anyone's life before, even when faced with robbers and drunken brutes, but this predicament was different, calling for the act of defense. It was killed or be killed.

And if he was wrong in his stance, he was certain God would overlook it. With so many past sins mounted on his guilty conscience, one more scarcely seemed to matter.

So he would wait, until the rise of the next morn to put his plan into action, _if_ God saw fit to protect him one more night.


	5. Chapter 5

V. An Ill Devised Plan Goes Awry

Stretching her long fingers over Paris, brilliant daylight vanquished darkness. Purple swirls gave way to orange sunbursts and flickering stars to glorious sunshine. Gone was eventide, pushed aside obtrusively by dawn.

Buquet had never paid attention to daybreak in his life, for the start of a new day always signified a commencement of his labors. He used to prefer the night, when he'd toss aside the shackles of his dependency and embrace the freedom of the dark; but now, in a moment's occurrence, the carefree associations of the evening were gone, robbed in an instant by a perpetrator whose very memory caused hot blood to chill, and pleasant associations to curdle.

The scene-shifter rose with the first bits of light. He had a long travel ahead of him. The night prior he'd secured some items for his walking trip: a lantern, extra candles, some rope and a knife. The latter he'd purchased from another stagehand for a few ducats. Tucking away the dull blade into his boot, he straightened, and as he passed a shaky hand over his brow, discovered profuse sweat had already formed. The moistened drops were not a good omen. He needed to bring a sense of calm and composure to his spirit if he meant to have success in his venture.

Now Buquet was not exactly light on his feet. He had a heavy gait, and walking through the halls at such an early hour, his steps could be heard lumbering as he traversed the corridors. Indeed, his stomping awoke some of the other workers, who cursed the individual for his untimely romp. Buquet actually heard someone yell through their closed door,

"Drunken bastard! Can't you live without the bottle for a few minutes?"

Momentarily Buquet started at the unexpected and unfair claim as he was not pursuing his much loved brandy. As a matter of fact, he hadn't touched the bottle for days. It seemed his ordeal had sobered him, but should God grant him victory in his mission, he'd drown himself in a river of his coveted whisky. Ironic, he knew, but Buquet had not enough principals or moral convictions to alter his life for the better. Deciding to let the comment echo into oblivion, he thundered away as well.

Down the many steps leading to he knew not where; through the narrow passageway of the unfamiliar; a sense of thrill swept over the middle-aged man. For a moment, he dared imagine himself the adventurer of great perils and the conqueror of bravura woes. His mind raced to a not-too distant future, calculating outcomes and thwarting evildoers. He suddenly realized what a great story this could be to share, if the quest went in his direction. To venture where no man ever has and to trounce what others only dared dream. The poor dupe became increasingly bolder, and less wise. Well, he was never with wisdom, but now common sense had fled!

The sound of rushing water filled Buquet's ears. He wondered if a leak had sprung from behind the walls. He passed a set piece; he recognized it immediately from one of the scenes used in the _Roi de Lahore. _ He paused momentarily, holding the gaslight closer to the props as he puzzled curiously over it. When he could no more make of the displaced item in the third cellar, he turned…and then… then… Buquet's heart stopped in his very throat. If his forehead had produced droplets before, now he was certain his body rained sweat.

He saw the thing – for it was difficult to refer to it as yet a man, though he knew it to be – working against a wall at the opposite end from him. Quickly blowing out the lantern, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark, praying for his pupils to dilate quickly. When he felt his vision ascertain the surroundings, he realized the Ghost had gone, disappeared as was customary for an apparition to do.

To flee was his first instinct, to seek safety his impulse, but human curiosity, man's very nature, brought him to the exact spot on the wall where the Unknown had just stood. With a heavy hand he felt the cold partition, seeking for a way to enter. The wall remained obstinately shut, and Buquet, frustrated and angry, put his full weight against it, and so it opened.

Holding his breath, for well could it be his last, Buquet entered, moving idiotically about with noisy steps. And then he dropped, hard and fast, perhaps to hell.


	6. Chapter 5 part 2

Buquet opened his eyes wondering if he was dead or alive. His hands traveled about his body feeling his head, his chest, his legs – to ascertain there cohesiveness, hoping to discover no breaks. All seemed sound. With a grunt he lifted himself from the floor, only to pound himself on the head repeatedly.

Believing something loosened in his brain following the fall, he saw two – nay, six of himself. What a moment to catch a good look at himself! His unruly mane twisted and tangled in frightful knots practically stood on every end; his swollen face, naturally pallid, whitened several more shades in light of his present situation. What bothered him most was the frightened expression reflected in his eyes bordering near sheer panic. For all around him - besides the endless Buquets twirling and spinning in terrified synchronization – were mirrors, half a dozen at least; though for the unfortunate man caught in the trap, they appeared limitless.

He did not know which way to turn, and bearing a sudden sharp right, knocked his face right into the glass causing his body to tumble back. Dazed, he stayed down on the ground for several seconds, hoping to call composure to his alarmed mind. Lifting his heavy lids, he allowed his gaze to focus straight above from his fixed position on the floor and saw the most perplexing item yet, which in his first few frenzied moments he'd failed to note before: a metal tree. As singular as the object appeared, it was the secondary item that caused Buquet's gasp to catch in his throat and nearly wet his breeches again. A solitary noose hung menacingly from the strongest silver branch.

_He plays a deadly game with Fate_; how terrible Madame Giry's words sounded at that particular moment. Could it be possible she had a hand in this? No, no. Prophetic – indeed, intense – without question, but she was neither a murderer, nor a hired hand for an executioner. How he wished he'd listened. He regretted ever uttering a single word against the Opera Ghost. But, perhaps, if he begged for forgiveness, perhaps, perhaps….

"Allo?" He called out, the other Buquets mimicking his every movement. "If anyone can hear me, I've, um, come here by mistake. I, I wandered too deep into the cellars. I'm lost. If – If you'd be so good as to help me out of here, I won't trouble you no more, sir. I – I'm good at forgettin' things." He forced a very weak, inconvincible laugh from his jittering lips; shaky at best, pathetic at worst, he knew he'd soon resort to begging and bawling, Buquet's bravado instantly gone.

The only reply Buquet received were his own words echoing in turn to him; not comforting in the least. However, a few seconds later, the room flooded with light, a blinding most dazzling spectacle. Fain would he appreciate it, if it didn't so hurt his eyes. He thought someone would come to the door, if there was a door, but alas, no one came to his aid - or to kill him.

The stagehand sat as far from the tree as he possibly could, which wasn't far enough, wondering exactly what would become of him. That the Ghost meant to hang him was obvious; he only speculated if he'd be dead or alive at that point.

Buquet passed a hand over his brow, not surprised to find the sweat dangling from there, or to feel it trickling down the sides of his face. He began to feel feverish; it did not signify. His thoughts alone attributed to his racing heart and uncontrollable limb jerks. Of course he would overexert himself. But as time passed, he felt his clothes cling to his frame as second skin. Every pore in his body opened and produced uncontrollable sweat. Two hands were not quick enough to catch the salty drops stinging his eyes. He knew fear would provoke his bodily functions to work in such heightened manner, but this was beyond fear. And when he gulped, hoping his own saliva would quench the burning in his parched throat he came to a horrific discovery – someone meant to roast him alive in that room!

With a start, Buquet sprung to his feet, determined to find a way out of the room. He would not die in that fashion. There was nothing heroic, nothing honorable in dying like a rat caught in his own trap. He'd forever be thought the dupe he truly was. No, no, no. There had to be a way out of this maze. There had to.

Glass shattered, did it not? Buquet angrily smashed his fists into the mirrors, but did nothing more than crack the glass. Pulling back his throbbing hand, he saw his knuckles opened and split, his own blood smeared across the top of the cut flesh. Inhaling sharply, he proceeded to kick at the reflective walls; his heavy boots would certainly penetrate the fragile mirror. They did not. His tirades did nothing more than weaken his rapidly extinguishing frame, for he dehydrated, and his dramatics only sped the process.

But what did Buquet know of this? Not an educated man by any means, he had never encountered such devilry in the form of this room. He had no knowledge of the thickness and vastness of the glass. He had no idea of the diabolical psyche of his executioner. Never could he have envisioned such torture. Poor Buquet, a dumb dog left to die by his own idiocy. He did not deserve it, but such was his lot.

Screaming was his next tactic, and scream he did at the top of his lungs and with all his force , though that only served to leave him hoarse. His thick tongue demanded water, but there was not a droplet to be found. All he could do was gulp down the hot air around him. It was stifling - so stifling. He nearly fainted. It might have been good if he fainted. Why couldn't he faint?

No! If he closed his eyes, he'd never more open them.

Buquet cast another look at himself in the mirror; the shadow of death crossed his features. His face nearly drained of its color, his lips cracked and tightened, practically disappearing into the flesh. His eyes seemed to withdraw within themselves, threatening any second to roll back; it was a ghastly sight. He was a ghastly man.

"_Joseph! What are you about now?" His mother questioned, an angry flash in her eyes, her hands on her hips._

"_Nothing. Why do you always suspect me?" Buquet wriggled the coins he'd taken from her inside his palm. He hoped she didn't ask to see his hands._

"_You're headed for trouble, Joseph Bouquet. Mark my words. Luckily for your Papa, he's not alive to see this. He's probably turning in his grave."_

_Mentions of his father always drove him to anger. Why couldn't she leave the dead man out of this?_ _"When will you turn in yours?"_

_His brazen insult met with the pummeling of her hands as she tore his hair, which had always been wild._

Buquet felt his own body beaten and sore, for he threw it against the glass, pounding, beating, scratching. He yelled, wailed, screamed. The damn things did not shatter. They did not shake. All they did was stand to help him witness his own demise. It was coming. It was coming.

"MAMA!" he cried, taking his massive head and throwing it against the glass. Only his forehead bruised and split, but blood did not gush out as quickly. His water drained from his own body. "Mama, mama. I need water! Water! Water!" He thought he screamed, but didn't know his voice had practically gone out, and he could do no more than issue a ragged whisper.

He dropped on his hands and knees, but the floor was so hot, so hot! It burned his hands. Oh, if he could but cover his head, cover it from that infernal sun! There was so much damn sunlight in the room! It blinded. It blinded.

Buquet heard laughter. Not soft laughter. No. A deep, gleeful laugh. It chuckled from the innermost part of a wicked soul, bellowed from the depths of hell.

The monster laughed at him.

Was he in the room? Buquet spun, so did all the other Buquets. But no. No monster. No man. Only laughter. It grew.

"Show…yourself…if…you…dare."

The laughter grew.

He continued spinning 'til he fell back, dazed and confused.

"_Sit still, you wretched boy! I swear you'll be the death of me."_

_Young Joseph wriggled in the church bench and when his mother turned his back, crossed his eyes at her. He received an ear tugging as a reward. But it wasn't from his mother, for she had not seen. The punishment had been issued by the priest standing but a foot from him._

"_Young man, do as your mother bids. She is responsible for saving your soul."_

"My soul! My soul! I'm not ready to die! I'm not ready! Dear God, where's the water, wind, anything?"

Mad Buquet pressed his face to the searing glass. His face seemed to melt into the wall, and yet… it felt good. He needed shade. Shade. Trees had shade. Yes. Yes they did. There was a tree in this room. Yes. The silver one. The one with the little rope on it. Buquet dragged himself towards his salvation.

Oh, the noose! The noose! Would it not be more merciful for him to hang himself? Before the monster came to finish the job? Yes, yes. God would understand.

Buquet climbed the tree a bit; it too, was hot to his touch, his slick palms and drenched body made it difficult to grasp the limbs, but somehow, somehow he managed. He felt the noose. Yes, it was secure. It should hold his weight. Dear God, may it hold his weight. He could not bear much more. Buquet licked his own arm to feel the water against his parched throat. It did nothing, except bring more maniacal laughter.

As he perched himself unsteadily on the arm of a tree, he suddenly recalled a Psalm. He would recite it. Yes, he would. For he neared the hour of death. Should it not follow that his last act be one of redemption, if he could be redeemed for what he was about to do.

"Be merciful to me Lord, for I am faint; O Lord, heal me, for I am in agony. My soul is in anguish. How long, O Lord, how long? Turn, O Lord, and deliver me; save me because of your unfailing love. No one remembers you when he is dead. Who praises you from the grave? I am worn out from groaning…my eyes grow weak from sorrow; they fail because of my foes.

"Away from me all you who do evil, for the Lord has heard my weeping. The Lord had heard my cry for mercy; the Lord accepts my prayer."

Whether Buquet jumped or slipped, he could not tell, but he soon jerked, his body wriggling violently from the arm of the tree.

The laughter soon died.

Psalm 6 verses 2-5,7-9


	7. Chapter 6

VI – No Requiem for Mortal Man

Seven stories above, away from feverish jungles and inescapable glass, the mortals continued with their daily endeavors. Christine Daae took her place amongst the girls, as if nothing had transpired out of the ordinary. She danced and smiled when spoken to, and when she thought no one watched, shifted her gaze whenever anyone mentioned anything of the young Vicomte. One might suspect her of being in love.

But it was not Miss Daae's presence or personal ongoings that stirred the Opera House and thrilled its occupants to its very core; No. Rather, it was the news received but moments ago with hurried feet and agitated breath from Jammes' mother, who sank in a chair to weep while choking out the painful words.

_Joseph __Buquet__ was dead!_

Though no one thought him an upright well bred individual, the news was received with distress and fear. Joseph Buquet dead? The careless drunk? The lively storyteller? How? Who? When?

_He was found hanging in the third floor cellar under the stage, between the farm house and the __Roi__ de Lahore._

No more jesting. No more mockery. There was a Ghost! There had to be a Ghost! Buquet was right and had paid the price with his life.

They had pulled out the bloated body. The bluish face and bloodshot eyes served to both terrify and warn the inhabitants victimized by a corporeal spirit. Forgive the paradox, but such was the matter.

The dancing girls mourned the loss deeply; despite their avarice at the man's objectionable appearance and loathsome suggestions, he had been very popular amongst them. Ah, if only they had been nicer. If only they had taken his stories more seriously. And such were the regrets they were left to entertain; that is until some other hapless dupe usurped his place, and proved half as entertaining.

However, at the moment, all eyed Christine warily. They would make certain to tread carefully around her, lest more nooses appeared on necks.

But where was the noose? The marks visible upon Buquet's corpse evidenced a hanging had occurred, but none could find the rope! More infamy! More mystery! Certainly someone, somewhere had it? Where it was, no one wanted to guess.

Poor, poor Buquet! None changed the scenes half as well as he had.

A beautifully chilling piece played from a pipe organ, encrusted and engraved into the wall of a darkened room. At the organ's center a man sat, a man who had not taken food nor drink, who fed off his music days at a time. A wretched man, with a wretched soul, who played and laughed - sometimes in succession, sometimes in harmony. But more often than not, he cried. Deep, harrowing sobs resounded from a soul most mortals could not understand. A complex thing this man-Ghost was, and of the latter he wished to free himself.

Why would they not let him be? Could they not see he just wanted a life like everyone else? He wanted to be loved for himself! And if not, then they would all die, himself included – in a splendid blaze of glory! For he could do anything! Yes, that infernal scene-shifter had been right!

Too bad for him.

Fin


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